St Baker's
by Purplehelen
Summary: Boarding School AU. John is a teacher, Sherlock a student at a public school. Inspired by Floobin's drawings. May be viewed here
1. Chapter 1

It was a comfortable life, really, John Watson mused as he marked the Fifth Form's tests. Rewarding, yes. Undemanding, again, yes. And yet...

Finishing Posner's paper, a good, solid B, Doctor Watson sighed. Roberts' paper, now uppermost on the pile, was a mess of tortured, twisted and tangled characters, numerals and symbols. To make things worse, Roberts was a bright student, obliging him to at least attempt to decipher the handwriting - St. Baker's School did not charge thousands of pounds a year for its teachers to be foiled by mere dyspraxia, as had been impressed upon the teaching staff by the rather formidable Mrs. Roberts. With another, more resigned sigh, the good doctor set to work.

It wasn't so much the lack of excitement, he decided, strolling across the cricket pitch, en route to the village pub. It was the... the _uniformity_. There may seem to be little distinction between the two, yet boredom was to be expected, a teacher in a boarding school could hardly expect to have the same challenges as in an inner city comprehensive. No students mugged on the way home, no knives smuggled into school, no truancy. But surely, some of the students should be _different_. Not aspiring politicians, doctors, bankers, studying and schmoozing and competing, from out of the womb, practically. It seemed bred in, sometimes.

And how did he fit in, John Watson, MB, BChir, BSc(Hons)? How had he, a grammar school boy, a doctor, a soldier, ended up here, teaching these smug little rich boys how to get into Oxbridge? For them, it seemed to be all so easy, insulated from reality. Maybe that was it, his great moral qualms. _You managed to forget all that when you took the job_, the nasty, malicious little voice behind his eyes whispered.

The glowing yellow light spilling out of The Black Horse's windows came into view as John broached the hilltop, shaking him out of his reverie. The Cotswold stone of the wall beside the door was briefly illuminated as one of the villagers stepped outside, then again, as he lit a cigarette. The rumble of voices from within was becoming clearer now, a babble of accents - west country, generic middle class, and even upper class. For a moment, John was reminded of the classic, sketch "...I am upper class, I look down on him..." It made an odd mix, in his opinion, the locals, the professionals "moved out of the city - such good schools here, you know," and the occasional minor member of the gentry. And he... he was there to meet some of the staff from school.

Greg saw him as soon as he entered the pub, and beckoned him over to the bar.

"John! Thought you'd never get here? What kept you? Mike, pint of bitter for John," he said, with a nod to the landlord.

John took a seat on the barstool as Mike began pumping the tap into an old-fashioned tankard.

"Marking, you know how it is - end of term assessments."

Greg nodded sympathetically, passing over a five pound note, and sliding the proffered drink across to John, who drank appreciatively.

"Just be grateful you don't have to mark History essays, that's all I can say. My god, don't the prep schools teach them anything about constructing an argument these days?" Greg held his head in his hands in mock resignation.

This time it was John's turn to nod sympathetically, and he obliged.

"Are Molly and George in yet?"

"In the bathroom." Greg flicked his hand towards the ladies. "Why on Earth do women do that?"

"What?"

"All go to the bathroom together. You're a doctor, you should know."

John smiled, shaking his head.

"I think that is beyond medical science, Greg. Try asking a psychologist. Or better yet, a woman. Here's a pair of them now, seize the chance."

Molly emerged from the toilet, George following her, searching in her handbag as she did. Molly slid in between John and Greg and rested against the bar.

"Same again, Mike," smiling at him before turning to John. "Hi there, stranger." She smiled at him too, then turned back to Mike to pay for the drinks.

George, who had been moving slowly across the room, absorbed in her handbag, suddenly sprang into motion as the seat next to John was vacated by the man sitting nearest the wall. She claimed it swiftly, smiling vicariously, though, in truth, no-one else had so much as moved towards it.

"Right, everyone. End of term assessments done and marked? Good. Now, to prevent a perfectly good evening from being spoilt by complaining -" she paused as Molly passed her a gin and tonic "-thank you, Molly. As I was saying, John, you have nothing to complain about, you had to mark maths questions, for which there is one right answer, and you, Molly, mark a similarly right-or-wrong topic. As for you, Gregory, you do not have to endure the terrible pain of fourteen year old boys attempting to be antagonistic and argue that _The Taming of the Shrew_ is a good model for family structure. So drink up and either shut up or agree that your pain is as nothing to mine."

With that, George took a great gulp of her drink. The others smiled.

"She always did have a flair for the dramatic," Greg stage whispered "I've heard there's an am-dram group starting up in the village. Fancy joining, George?"

George's reply was a profane gesture, causing both Greg and Molly to erupt with laughter. Ignoring them, George slipped a file from her handbag across to John.

"There's a new student starting on Monday. He'll be here tomorrow, though. A chance to settle in, meet the other boys over the weekend. You know the sort of thing. He's sixteen. He'll be in your house."

"Umm... okay," John said, flicking through the file."He's sixteen, so he'll be in Fifth Form, then?"

"No." George replied empathically. "Definitely not. In fact, he'll be in the Upper Sixth. And he - he might need a little bit of extra support from you, John."

John sighed. This, he decided, was probably code for 'precocious little git.' Brilliant, because there _clearly_ weren't enough of them at St. Bakers as it was.

"Go on, then. What's his name. Chummley Fitton-Fortescue or something?"

"No, Holmes, actually. Funny first name. Sherlock."


	2. Chapter 2

John stood under the ledge that protruded out above the entrance to St. Baker's, sheltered from the drizzle. The rain had started nearly ten minutes ago, and gave no sign of stopping. It made rather a dramatic view, he thought. The two supporting Doric columns framed the playing fields and the woods beyond, and the greyness of it all put John in mind of Lowry, a rural one, admittedly. Shaking his head as if to clear it, and musing that perhaps the weather was seeping into his mind, making him, too, grey, John took the packet of Marlborough's from his pocket.

He flicked back the lid, relishing the sharp, yet papery sound, and removed one very papery cigarette before secreting the packet in its place of concealment. John rolled the little tube between his thumb and forefinger, the cellophane crinkling as he did so. With a small tug at the gold strip, the plastic loosened and fell away, and John sniffed at the stick lovingly. Recalling the stringent rules on smoking within school, and with a small sigh, he placed the cigarette in the inner pocket of his jacket.

"Filthy habit." He said, to no-one in particular.

Through the rainfall, he could make out the shape of an approaching car. It was close, having just reached the top of the slope that led down towards the school proper. The gentle rumble became audible, growing in volume and then dying away as the engine stopped. It had arrived.

Now that the car was closer, John, could see that it was an extremely nice car, a car so nice that, had it been a person, would by now be inviting John indoors for a cup of tea and a chat. Water streamed off the black surface, practically streaming off the silver figure mounted on the bonnet. Most of the students were from wealthy families, but the Holmes boy, as the chauffer opening the car's back door attested, was in a league of his own.

At first, John could see little of the new student, a combination of the chauffer's umbrella and the by now pouring rain, save that he was tall, and of slight build. The two reached the shelter of the porch, and the umbrella was lowered, the chauffer returning to the car, presumably to collect luggage.

"And you must be... Doctor Watson," the boy extended a pale, long-fingered hand "Sherlock Holmes. I believe you have been expecting me."

"Yes, Miss Bracknell no doubt informed you that I am to be your housemaster?" John enquired, shaking the boy's hand, surprised at the strength of grip exerted by those delicate digits.

"No," Holmes shook his head. "I don't believe she ever mentioned you."

John surveyed the boy. He was indeed tall and slight, though perhaps 'wiry' would be a better turn of phrase. His skin was alabaster, made even paler by contrast with the mass of black curls that hing about his face, slightly dampened by the rain. His eyes were pale too, and made him seem almost alien, yet somehow... _fascinating_. He paused. How on Earth had the boy known his name? Perhaps sensing the inevitable question, he continued.

"Your name was on the card on your lanyard. Now, where can Anthony take my things?" He asked, gesturing at the chauffer, who was walking towards them, a suitcase and a large, oddly shaped box in hand.

"I'll show you the dormitory first, and then we can do the grand tour." The boy nodded, smiling slightly at the faint sarcasm in the last few words. "Do you need a hand with those?" John asked, nodding at Anthony, who shook his head, scowling slightly.

Though still nominally known as 'the dormitory,' the once vast room had long been sectioned off into a number of smaller bedrooms. Each was home to two students, though the sixth form were accorded the privilege of an individual room.

"You're in here, for now," said John, indicating a non-descript door. "You might be moved in a month or so – when we decide upon the house and subject prefects for the next year." At Holmes' questioning look, John continued. "They get rooms with small offices. An old tradition, I believe."

The boy nodded.

"Just in there, then, Anthony. And then you can take the car back home."

The chauffer nodded and entered the room. Watching him, John frowned. The man had not spoken a single word since he first saw him, which seemed... disquieting.

"So, this 'grand tour.' Shall we?" The young voice was crisp, commanding. Though not uncommon at St. Baker's, it sent a thrill through John, which was odd. He had the strange urge to salute. With a start, he realised Holmes was looking at him enquiringly, the cold eyes seeming to bore into his very soul.

"Yes, of course. Follow me."

Holmes did so, walking abreast of John.

"So, Doctor Watson, how is it that you, an army doctor, became a Maths teacher?"

John stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the boy beside him, who similarly came to a stop.

"_How_ did you know that?" His voice was strained, betraying his shock, as did his widened mouth and eyes.

"It's simple, really. You walk like a soldier, yet your identification names you as the school doctor. Not terribly difficult to infer. As to the Maths teacher part, you have a white mark above your top pocket, clearly caused by a chalk being habitually placed there, and the mark remains there because it appears so often that it is hardly worth being cleaned off. Whilst most teachers now use whiteboards, Maths departments, along with Physics, of course, have remained curious resistant to this trend. I chose Maths as more likely than Physics as a greater number of medical students have Maths A-level than Physics, so are more likely to pursue an additional degree in the subject, which would certainly be required to teach at a public school such as this."

The speech poured out of Holmes in a long stream, said quickly, as if to forestall interruption, and with barely a pause for breath. John stared. Finding his voice, he stammered.

"That – that was amazing. And – right. Um. Yes. Amazing."

The boy, who had been gazing at the floor, as if expecting chastisement, glanced up, surprise in those ghostly eyes. For a moment, warmth, of delight in the commendation, spread through him, then was visibly, guiltily, almost, suppressed. The shield was, once again, raised.

"Thank you," came the dry reply. "That certainly makes a change from the usual response to my deductions."

"Which is?"

"'Piss off'"

John suppressed a snort of laughter, and remembered his role.

"Language, Holmes." His reprimand lacked conviction, and the amusement beneath was obvious to even the most oblivious observer, which Holmes was evidently not.


	3. Chapter 3

It was night, and John lay upon the sagging mattress, asleep. A casual observer would have concluded that his slumber was not peaceful. John turned, flinging himself first to one side, then the other. The duvet had been kicked off long ago, and the bottom sheet had loosed itself from the mattress and had wrapped, rope-like, around John's waist. A more intent observer would have noticed the channels of sweat across his face and chest, the laboured breathing and the hands digging, desperately into the mattress, seeking perhaps comfort, escape?

To truly know John's mind, the observer would have to sublime, the newly formed mist seeping into John, to the space behind his eyes.

The battle raged. Gunshots, shouts, screams... sobs. A corpse, face blown half away, blood and brains soaking into the sand. The one remaining eye is... familiar. Loved.

Explosions, now, thunderous. Blood, falling as rain. Limbs - like branches, thrown by the wind. A heavier thud. Focus. A whole one hit the ground. Bloodied - check for pulse. A change in the artery, thin as thread. Stem the blood - so much red. Covering him, his hands, arms, face. A child, covered in jam, soon to be cleansed, yet with no way of doing so himself..

The boy's eyes were curious, dispassionate, watching him, his pain, his breakdown. Now all of him was present, not just the eyes. He walked calmly through the chaos, serene. The purity of his pale, naked flesh made him seem angelic, as the dust and blood and carnage were suddenly on another plane. The boy approached, touched his cheek.

John awoke. He knew he had dreamed, though what of... feeling the dried sweat upon his skin, he walked to the bathroom. The stream of water from the shower was cool, rejuvenating and clean. He stood beneath it, feeling awake, perhaps more so than he had done in a long time.


End file.
